


Haunted Men

by aw_writing_no



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bondage, Dom/sub, M/M, Sub!Bucky, dom!Clint, sub!Steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-09-28 05:25:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10074113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aw_writing_no/pseuds/aw_writing_no
Summary: Clint doubted that Steve and Bucky had any idea how clearly he saw them, how his eyes lingered long after they let their facades fall. After missions he saw how Bucky dug his metal fingers into his flesh arm, causing bruises to bloom beneath them. He saw Steve berate himself over every damaged building, every civilian casualty, every injury the team sustained during a mission. He saw how Bucky forced himself to smile when Steve looked his way, how Steve exuded confidence around his best friend only to collapse in on himself when he was alone.They looked like men who needed a soft touch to keep them from falling apart, or a rod of steel to hold them together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP, which I am posting prematurely because I had a bottle of wine and need validation.
> 
> If there are typos let me know wine makes editing hard.
> 
> (With the gift of hindsight and a mild hangover, I now realize the above statement is absurd, but I'm leaving it because it's hilarious and I need to take a nap.)
> 
> I'm hoping updates for this will be fairly regular, but I am in grad school which has to take precedence unfortunately.

The light was still on in the kitchen when Clint stumbled in at 2 am. Steve sat at the table, an array of files and maps spread before him, murmuring to himself as he wrote in a small red notebook. Clint stared at him for a moment, startled that Captain America was still awake and not dreaming of eagles or flags or punching Hitler in the face. He narrowed his eyes as he studied Steve, wondering if he would be able to keep his mouth shut about Clint’s activities.

 _You’re a goddamn secret agent. Just be quiet and he’ll never even realize you were here_.

Clint’s stealth mission failed within seconds after he opened the cabinet and an avalanche of pots crashed to the floor, loud enough for Clint to register even without his hearing aids.  He turned to smile sheepishly at Steve, who had jumped to his feet and grabbed his shield in response to the noise. Clint saw Steve's mouth move, and held his hand out in a _wait_ gesture as he dug his aids out of his pockets. Clint hooked them over his ears, tapped once to check they were working, then gave Steve a thumbs up.

“Jesus, Clint, what are you doing here?” Steve demanded, setting his shield on the floor and lowering himself back into his chair. He ran a hand over his face and exhaled loudly. “You have no idea how close I came to hitting you with the shield.”

_Fuck it, abort mission. It’s unpatriotic to lie to Captain America._

“I’m definitely not making formula for the three two-week-old kittens I don’t have,” Clint said. He bent to retrieve a large mixing bowl from the pile on the floor and wandered to the sink to fill it with hot water. He glanced over his shoulder at Steve, who blinked back at him, mouth slightly open.

“You -- what? Kittens?”

“Some tracksuit asshole tossed them in the garbage,” Clint explained, setting the bowl down next to the stove where he wasn’t likely to spill it. He hauled himself onto the counter to reach his stash of baby bottles on top of the fridge, hidden behind a bread maker Steve had bought and never used. He sorted through them until he found three that were suitably small. “The rescue I normally work with doesn’t have any available fosters that can care for nursing kittens, so I’m holding onto them for a week or so. Not supposed to be feeding them this late but the little assholes wouldn’t shut up.”

“Is hiding small animals in the Tower a regular occurrence for you? Tony is going to kill you if cats shred your furniture.”

“They can’t even go to the bathroom by themselves, Steve, I doubt they’re going to wreak  havoc on the place. Besides, Jarvis and I have an understanding, isn’t that right pal?”

“I don’t know to what you are referring, Agent Barton,” Jarvis replied, the AI’s clipped British accent managing to embody feigned innocence. “Any damage to your apartment can easily be explained by your tendency to run into walls and the occasional fight with Agent Romanoff.”

“I don’t have a tendency to run into walls,” Clint muttered. He glared at Steve, whose shoulders shook with barely suppressed laughter. Clint grabbed an unopened can of powder formula from the box next to his bottle supply and jumped off the counter. He got a bowl and a whisk on his way to the sink, then began the meticulous process of preparing the milk replacer.  He poured the finished product into the bottles and submerged them in the bowl of hot water.

“What do you do with them when we’re called out?” Steve asked. His eyes tracked Clint’s movements around the kitchen, his brow slightly furrowed.  “Kittens that small need hourly care, there’s no way you can commit to fostering them when we may have to go fight Doom Bots any minute.”

“I leave them with Pepper, obviously.”

Steve laughed and shook his head. “Obviously. Nothing goes on in this tower without Pepper knowing, huh?”

“Not a damn thing,” Clint quipped, counting off the steps on his fingers before concluding he had made the formula correctly. “Jarvis, where’s Tony?”

“Sir is currently asleep in his workshop.”

“Excellent, the coast is clear,” Clint said. He turned to Steve and pointed at the bowl. “If I’m not back in five minutes, ask Jarvis to measure the temperature and tell you if the bottles need to be taken out.” He half-jogged to the elevator, not waiting for Steve to reply. The doors closed and the elevator ascended without Clint telling Jarvis to take him to his floor.

Plaintive meows met him as he opened the door to his apartment, rising in pitch and frequency as Clint made his way to the bathroom. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming you beasts.” He opened the door and gently picked up the carrier, smiling at the kittens through the metal door before walking to the elevator. “Jarvis, how is their temperature?”

“All three kittens have an appropriate body temperature around 101 degrees fahrenheit, Agent Barton. The large orange female and the tabby male have begun crawling around the carrier, and I would not be concerned about the calico’s lack of movement for another few days.”

“Thanks, Skynet. Take us down nice and slow, okay? Don’t want to jostle these guys too much.”

 “By my estimation the formula should be ready by the time you return the kitchen.”

The doors opened to the communal floor, revealing another figure seated at the table with Steve.

“Aw, people, no,” Clint said, walking towards the kitchen and eyeing Bucky warily. “Jarvis, why didn’t you warn me that my cover was blown?”

“Captain Rogers assured me that Sergeant Barnes would be discreet.”

“He asked Steve if I was cleared for your current mission,” Bucky said, the corner of his lips quirking upward in the barest hint of a smile. “I’m not sure what I was expecting but it definitely wasn’t this.” He gestured towards the carrier with his metal hand.

“I’m a man of mystery,” Clint said. He set the carrier by Steve’s feet, ignoring the protesting cries from within. He straightened and turned to Bucky. “What are you two even doing up?”

Bucky’s gaze slid away from Clint’s as he shrugged. “Don’t sleep so well these days. Jarvis said Steve was here working on mission reports.”

“Agent Barton, the formula is ready. Would you like me to keep the other two bottles warm while you feed the first kitten?”

Clint glanced at table, appraising the two super soldiers. Things would go much more quickly if he had help, rather than taking the time to feed each kitten individually. Besides, it would be good for Steve and Bucky -- something small and adorable to give them a break from their thoughts. Clint knew better than anyone that sometimes the best way to get out of your head was to have something else to take care of.

Hawkeye’s Guide to Self Care, Step #1: Kittens. The fluffier the better.

Another quick look at the table confirmed that Steve and Bucky were in major need of some fluff therapy. Hours hunched over papers had hardened the muscles in Steve’s back, his shoulders drawn up towards his neck while his right hand drummed the table restlessly. Bucky’s eyes were more red than white, veins shooting through the sclera and accentuating the dark bags on his lower lids. Tension radiated from every line of their bodies.

Clint sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. This might take a whole lot more than kittens to fix.

Clint doubted that Steve and Bucky had any idea how clearly he saw them, how his eyes lingered long after they let their facades fall. After missions he saw how Bucky dug his metal fingers into his flesh arm, causing bruises to bloom beneath them. He saw Steve berate himself over every damaged building, every civilian casualty, every injury the team sustained. He saw how Bucky forced himself to smile when Steve looked his way, how Steve exuded confidence around his best friend only to collapse in on himself when he was alone.

They looked like men who needed a rod of steel to hold them together, or a soft touch to keep them from falling apart.

Natasha had that look, once the dust had settled in Zagreb and she followed Clint forward to a different life. Afterwards she had turned to him for absolution, for redemption. In front of Fury she was the infamous Black Widow, detached, cool, ready to take any mission. Alone with Clint her mask would slip, her eyes filled with the panic of a once-caged animal that didn’t know it was free.

A memory rose in Clint’s mind, unbidden.

_Natasha knelt before him, her head bowed and her breathing ragged. Silk rope twisted across her torso, crossed between her breasts, a black web that pinned her arms behind her back and bound her wrists together._

_“You’re beautiful,” Clint whispered, watching Natasha tremble at the words. “So good for me, Nat. Just hold it there for a few more minutes and we’ll be done.”_

_“Not yet,” she said, shaking her head_ . “ _Please. I need orders, Clint.”_

_“You have my orders. Stay still.”_

_“It’s not enough. I need a mission. I need to know to whom I belong.”_

_Clint ran his fingers along her jaw before tilting her face up towards his._

_“You belong only to yourself,” he said, watching tears flood her pale blue eyes. “Not to the Red Room, not to SHIELD. Not even to me.”_

_“How can I belong to myself when I don’t know who I am?”_

_Clint leaned in to kiss her forehead._

_“I’m here to help until you find out.” Natasha sobbed and collapsed against him. “Don’t worry, Natasha. I’m going to take care of you.”_

He had helped Natasha find peace, the kind that can only be found on your knees with someone else in control. He looked at Steve and Bucky, recognizing the same empty look in their eyes he had once seen in Natasha’s. It was the hollow gaze of someone trying to see the ghosts they had created.

Clint smiled, biting his lip.

He knew how to help haunted men.

“Agent Barton? The formula?”

Clint realized he had been standing near the bowl staring into space for several minutes. He shook himself and grinned at the two men watching him curiously.

“You know what, Jarvis? I think it’s okay,” he said, carrying the bowl of water to the kitchen table and setting it down in front of Bucky. He gathered up the papers, batting away Steve’s hands as he reached for them, and set them on the far end of the table. “After all, there are three of us.”

“Clint you can’t ask us to do that,” Steve objected. “I have no idea how to bottle feed a kitten, what if I hurt it?”

“It’s incredibly simple,” Clint said. “Seriously, if I can do it, Captain America definitely can. I can barely take care of myself, and I’m great at kittens.”

Steve still didn’t look convinced. Clint sighed.

“Jarvis, how many times have I spilled coffee in the past three days?” Clint wandered back into the kitchen, opening various cabinets before he found the one that housed the dish towels.

“Seventeen times, four of which you successfully blamed on Dr. Banner and Thor, and three which you unsuccessfully blamed on Agent Romanoff,” Jarvis replied.

“How many times have I run into a wall or tripped and hurt myself?” Clint asked, heading back to the table.

“Eight.”

“And how many kittens or puppies have I successfully bottle fed and gotten into foster homes over the past three months?”

“All thirty three that you fostered were bottle fed without incident and successfully moved to foster homes. That is not counting the pit bull who gave birth to nine puppies in your shower.”

“Oh yeah, I totally forgot about that!” Clint handed a dish towel to Steve. “See? Anyone can do it. Put that across your lap so the kitten has something soft to lay on.” He turned to give Bucky a towel. “Alright, Terminator, what’s your excuse?”

Bucky said nothing. He simply stared at Clint and curled the metal fingers on his left hand into a fist.

“Would fur get caught between the plates?” Clint jerked his chin towards Bucky’s arm.

Bucky snorted. “I haven’t exactly been spending the past seventy-five years petting cats, Barton.”

Clint rolled his eyes and asked, “Can you run your hand through your hair without pulling any out?” Bucky nodded, then demonstrated by combing the strands on his forehead back with his left hand. Clint grinned at him.

“See, we have no problems,” Clint said. “Just be gentle with them. Now shut the hell up, go wash your hands, and take a kitten.”

Steve and Bucky stood and walked to the sink, exchanging glances as they went. Clint choked back a laugh as he saw Bucky mouth _What the fuck_ at Steve.

Clint reached down and gently extricated the kittens from the carrier. Once Steve and Bucky were settled at the table, towels across their legs, Clint handed each of them a kitten. Steve accepted the tabby, setting it down on his lap with a small smile. Bucky hesitated before taking the orange female, holding her in the palm of his right hand. He ran a single metal finger along her spine, his lips slowly curling into a grin as she meowed loudly in protest.

“This one reminds me of Natalia,” Bucky said. He set the kitten onto his lap and continued to stroke her softly with his left hand. Steve watched him, something akin to wonder or sadness in his eyes.

Clint kept the calico cradled against his chest, doing his best to avoid jostling her as he sat.

“You want the kitten to be lying on its belly across your legs,” Clint said, lowering the calico onto his lap. Steve and Bucky followed suit. All three kittens began crying, startling a laugh out of Steve and a look of alarm from Bucky.

“All right, monsters, settle down we are literally feeding you now. Okay, grab a bottle. You want to hold it at about a 45 degree angle above their head -- don’t give me that look Steve, I’ve seen you throw that shield, you fucking geometry nerd. The most important thing to remember here is not to squeeze the bottle. If you squeeze the bottle and the kitten gets too much too fast, they can get aspiration pneumonia, which is otherwise known as a bad thing.”

Bucky and Steve glared at Clint, their grips on the bottles loosening slightly so that their fingers barely grasped the plastic. Clint ignored them and continued.

“You’re going to rub the nipple gently across their mouths, and it should get them to start suckling. Let them go at their own pace.” He saw Bucky begin to giggle.

“You’re 98 years old, Barnes, you should be able to hear the world nipple without laughing,” Clint said, as if he hadn’t gone into hysterics last week when Sam kept talking about booby traps. A snort to his left confirmed Steve found it funny as well.

“I’m surrounded by children!” Clint exclaimed, which just made the other two laugh harder. “Alright, Cap, next time you’re giving the team some life lesson I’m just going to stand there rubbing my nipples. I dare you to keep a straight face then while you’re lecturing Tony on improper use of the comms.”

Steve looked indignant, then grinned at Clint as Bucky kept chuckling. For several minutes the only sound in the room was the kittens nursing.

“Why do you do this?” Bucky asked, breaking the silence. “You’re an Avenger and a SHIELD agent. I’m surprised you have time to cook, let alone bottle feed kittens.”

“Well I do normally just order pizza,” Clint joked. When the other two just stared at him, he continued, “Natasha says I have a pathologic need to take care of things. She claims that’s why I disobeyed Fury when I was sent to kill her -- thought I needed to add a Russian assassin to my collection of strays.”

“Was it?” Steve asked.

Clint shrugged. This story wasn’t really congruent with fluff therapy, but then again it might help shift Steve and Bucky’s perception of him from “Clint Barton: Most Likely to Fall Off a Building” to something slightly more serious.  At the very least it was a story that showed Clint in control and bringing someone dangerous and hurting into his care.

“I’d been tracking her for days before I finally caught up with her. She’d taken an arrow to the thigh and another grazed her scalp. I had an arrow aimed at her heart when I actually _saw_ her for the first time. She was backed into a corner, blood running into her eyes. Scared, but defiant.”  He paused, taking a moment to arrange his thoughts before continuing.

“She looked so young. Not that I was much older, but you could see it then, how young she was. It didn’t seem right for me to kill someone for being what she was programmed to be. So I climbed down from my nest, told her I was the man sent to kill her. Then I offered her my hand and said I was making a different call.”

Clint stopped talking to check if the calico was still drinking.  

“Then what?” Bucky prompted, his voice cracking slightly.

“She asked what my handler would do when they learned I disobeyed. I told her that it didn’t matter, because it was my choice. I think that intrigued her, the idea that I had a choice.” Clint looked up at Bucky and Steve. They were holding the bottles, watching the kittens nurse, but listening intently.

“I told her to come with me. She asked if I knew what her handlers would do if she disobeyed, and I said that it didn’t matter. That it would be her choice, and that I would protect her if I could. We needed to get the hell out of there, so I grabbed her hand and asked if she would come with me. She did.”

The room was silent for a moment, until Bucky burst out laughing.

“I agree with Natalia, you’ve got some kind of condition,” he said, nearly choking as he giggled around his words. “No one in their right mind would look at the Black Widow in her prime and try to hold her fucking hand.”  

“You better hope I don’t tell Nat you think she's no longer in her prime,” Clint fired back.

Steve chuckled and shook his head. “You’ve definitely got a lot of heart, Clint.”

Blue tinged the edge of Clint’s vision. _You have heart._ Then he rolled his shoulders, letting the cold crash over him before ebbing away like the tide. He’d spent years regaining his control after Loki; he wouldn’t lose it now in front of Steve and Bucky.

“Looks like they’re about done,” Clint said, referring to the kittens. Steve and Bucky nodded, then listened as he explained how to gently burp them.  Bucky wrinkled his nose as Clint set out paper towels and demonstrated how to rub the kitten’s lower belly with a warm wet cloth to get them to pee.

“Bucky, last month we literally fought a clan of alien apes whose main form of offense was to fling their feces at us. Trust me, this is nothing,” Clint said.

After all the kittens had gone to the bathroom, Clint placed the carrier on the table and collected the tabby from Steve and the orange female from Bucky.  Once all three kittens were back in the carrier, he yawned widely and closed the metal door.

“Jarvis, what time is it?” Clint asked, his words slurred as he yawned again.

“3:17 AM, Agent Barton.”

“Holy hell, when did it get so late? You two should get some sleep,” Clint said, waving his hand at Steve and Bucky.

“Not sure that’s in the cards tonight,” Bucky said. He glanced at Steve, who nodded.

“Yeah, I’ve got a lot of work left before I meet with Hill tomorrow.” Steve motioned towards the papers Clint had moved to the far end of the table.

Clint walked over to folders and flipped the first one open. “Steve, these are from our mission three weeks ago. You’ve met with Hill at least twice already to go over what happened.”

“I know,” Steve said. He stood up to gather the papers, frowning when Clint snatched the red notebook. “We’re talking about different objectives moving forward, using that mission as an example -- where to more effectively place you and Bucky as snipers, whether the twins are best utilized in combat or in clearing civilians. It’s important, Clint.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Clint replied, skimming through Steve’s notebook. “But it looks like you’ve got pages of notes here, more than can possibly be discussed in one session with Hill. You know what you’re doing, Cap. There’s a reason we trust you to lead the team.”

“I still need to consider every strategy --”

“Strategy is only relevant for the long game,” Clint interjected. “Strategy is what we use to track down and disable Hydra; it’s a systematic campaign against an enemy. This isn’t strategy, it’s tactics.” He shook Steve’s notebook. “We can practice tactics together as a team, work out how to react to different scenarios that occur. But trying to plan where to position Bucky and me for every situation that could arise isn’t a productive use of your time.”

“Clint, a couple of World War Two veterans are probably the last people who need lectures on strategy versus tactics,” Bucky said.

“You think you two are the only ones with command experience?” Clint retorted. “Clearly Cap here needed a review, he’s up at 3 am trying to outline scenarios that he can’t possibly be able to predict.”

“People can die if I don’t plan ahead for every possibility, Clint,” Steve said through gritted teeth.

“And people _will_ die if you’re too sleep deprived to make the right call,” Clint said evenly. He held Steve’s gaze, unblinking, trying to drive his point home. Steve looked away first, visibly deflated.

“He’s right, Steve,” Bucky said, reaching across the table to grasp Steve’s hand. Steve looked down at it, then back up at Bucky, and smiled softly. “You need some rest.”

“Don’t think I’m letting you off either, Bucky.” Clint set the red notebook next to Steve and wandered back into the kitchen. He grabbed the kettle from its home on the back burner and filled it with water before placing it back on the stove.  “I know you aren’t sleeping either.”

Bucky let go of Steve’s hand and leaned back in his chair. “Not much you can do to help me, Clint. You can’t just send me to bed -- Steve _won’t_ sleep. I can’t.”

“I find your lack of faith disturbing,” Clint said, holding out his hand to Force-choke Bucky. Both Steve and Bucky stared at him blankly. “Seriously, neither of you have seen Star Wars? This is blasphemy. Jarvis, schedule a team movie night to watch the original Star Wars trilogy.”

“I have tentatively scheduled it for the week after this Saturday, and will verify with everyone individually in the morning.”

“Excellent. Anyways, Bucky, what I was trying to say is you shouldn't doubt me. I've got more than a few tricks up my sleeve.” Clint squatted on his heels to rummage through the cabinet next to the fridge. “You heard about my role in the Battle of New York?”

“Steve told me,” Bucky said.

“So you know that while I was under Loki’s control I directly caused the death of over a seventy people? And then hundreds more when Loki opened the portal using the iridium I stole?”

“Yes.”

“Well I couldn't sleep for months after the battle. It felt like everytime I blinked there was blue flashing across my eyelids, and when I slept I'd drown in it. Remembering the attack on the helicarrier, fighting Nat... _his_ voice echoing in my mind.” Clint looked over his shoulder at Bucky. “I'm sure you can relate to memories keeping you awake.”

Bucky nodded.

“Anyway, when it became clear how little sleep I was getting, Banner shared some of his special sleepy time tea with me. He uses it when everyday stuff is stressing him out and he just needs to reset to avoid Hulking out,” Clint explained.

Clint shoved aside a box of Poptarts and pulled out a brown paper bag. He stood, groaning as his knees popped.  

“This stuff is basically magic.” He deposited the bag of tea on the counter near the stove, then grabbed two mugs. “It will knock you out for 6-8 hours, easy. _Dreamless_ sleep,” Clint added, with a pointed look at Bucky.

Steam hissed from the spout of the kettle. Clint removed it from the stove, added several tablespoons of tea, and left it to steep.

“I’m going jogging with Sam at 7, there’s no way I can sleep for 8 hrs,” Steve said.

“Jarvis, will you send Sam at text at 6:30 AM telling him that Steve will be taking the morning off to rest?” Clint asked.

“Of course, Agent Barton,” Jarvis said. “Shall I also inform Sir that his appointment to examine Sergeant Barnes's arm will be pushed back an hour or so?”

“Definitely,” Clint said before Steve or Bucky could object. “I think these guys deserve a good night’s sleep, Jarvis.”

“Their vital signs do indicate they are stressed and could benefit from rest,” Jarvis replied.

“Fuck off, Jarvis, don’t encourage him,” Bucky said. He leaned forward and reached for the carrier, scooting it across the table so he could peer inside. All three kittens lay sleeping in a pile, oblivious to the bickering around them. Bucky sighed, resting a finger against the door.

“A full night’s sleep would be nice,” Steve conceded.

“No shit,” Clint said. His eyes darted around the kitchen before he remembered where to find the strainer. He retrieved it from a drawer, then poured two mugs of tea. He shuffled back towards the table and handed one mug to Bucky and one to Steve.

Steve wrapped his hands around his mug, inhaling deeply before tentatively sipping the tea.

“It’s good,” Steve mumbled, taking another sip.

Clint turned to Bucky, who still held the mug loosely by the handle. “Bucky,” he said, letting his voice take a hard edge. “Drink.”

Bucky glared at Clint, momentarily defiant, before finding something in Clint’s gaze that deterred him from arguing.

“Yes, sir,” Bucky said, raising his mug to Clint.

Clint merely raised an eyebrow and nodded towards the tea. “Drink.”

Bucky took a large gulp, his eyes meeting Clint’s over the brim of his mug. Clint smiled and reached over to run his fingers gently through Bucky’s hair.

“Good boy,” Clint murmured. He pretended not to notice the way Bucky initially flinched away before leaning into his hand.

Clint stood by the edge of the table, arms folded over his chest, watching Steve and Bucky finish their drinks. Steve finished first, setting down his empty mug and looking at Clint expectantly. Clint grinned at him.

“Excellent,” Clint said, moving towards Steve to collect the mug. He laid his hand on top of Steve’s, squeezing once before letting go. “You two go get some sleep. I’ll clean up in here.”

Steve and Bucky both got up, letting Clint collect their mugs and bring them to the sink. They wandered over to the elevator, and Bucky asked Jarvis to take them to their floor.

“Careful, Clint,” Steve said as he stepped into the elevator. He and Bucky both turned to face Clint. “You keep this up, you’ll end up with more than just kittens to take care of.”

“Good thing I’m up for the challenge.” The corners of Clint’s mouth curled upwards in a smirk as he winked at Bucky and Steve. “Sleep well.”

Clint caught a brief glimpse of Bucky biting his lip and Steve’s face flushed red before the elevator door closed. He smiled as he began to rinse out the mugs and the kittens’ bottles.

It was a very promising start.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has been so long, grad school has been kicking my ass!

Clint sat in the rafters of the gym, the climbing rope coiled around the beam next to him. He twirled a trick arrow between his fingers and eyed the archery targets that lined the far wall.  Tony had instituted a ban on Clint shooting from the roof after the time one of his detonating arrow took out three targets just as Steve was giving a news crew a tour of the training area. Apparently explosions out of nowhere, a singed cameraman, and a slightly hysterical reporter were not the kind of press the Avengers needed.

Still, Clint was 83% sure there were no tours scheduled for that afternoon, and he was curious to see if his boomerang arrow would be accurate from this height and distance. He reached for his bow just as a _ding_ announced the elevator doors opening. He slid the arrow into his quiver and shifted his weight forward to see who came in, debating whether to announce his presence or climb down and return to his floor.

Bucky stalked into the gym, muttering to himself. Clint watched as he walked from the weight machines to the punching bags, before cursing and settling onto the padded floor beneath Clint’s perch. Bucky rolled onto his stomach, bracing his palms against the floor and pushing himself up. He twisted his left arm behind him, the metal fingers clenched in a fist against the small of his back, and began a rapid series of one-armed push ups.

Clint had seen Bucky twice in the week since the kitten incident, both times in team meetings. On more than one occasion he had caught Bucky staring at him with an appraising look in his eye. After Clint winked at him, Bucky had spent the rest of the meeting with his hair falling over his face, staring resolutely at Maria Hill’s presentation on how to interact with the media. Clint didn’t take it personally, or even as a sign that he should rethink his current strategy. He knew from experience that sometimes the kind of relationships he was trying to establish needed to be approached sideways. Natasha had been like a feral cat, trailing after him only to recoil from his touch. Still, she had been tamed with enough time and care. He had no doubt that the right opportunity to approach Bucky would reveal itself eventually.

Clint cocked his head to the side as he watched Bucky, noting the unforgiving pace he had set for himself. Five minutes passed, then ten. Bucky never slowed, his hair damp with sweat and his arm shaking from exertion. After twenty minutes, Bucky's breathing grew ragged, and Clint decided to intervene.

“Bucky, that’s enough,” Clint called from the rafters. Bucky stiffened momentarily, his arm locked beneath him. Then he dipped back down, resuming his quick pace.

“Fuck off, Clint,” Bucky said, each word accentuated with a heavy exhale and another push up.

Clint frowned. “You’re going to hurt yourself. Go shower.” Bucky ignored him.

Clint reached for his quiver, briefly checking that he hadn’t grabbed a trick arrow before shooting. He didn’t stop to see where it landed before uncoiling the rope and sliding down in one smooth motion -- he knew it was deeply embedded in the in the floor between Bucky’s thumb and index finger.

“What the hell!” Bucky exclaimed, scrambling to his feet. He whirled to face Clint, his lips curled in a snarled. “You do realize that putting an arrow through my hand would be a good way to get killed, don’t you?”

“If I was aiming for your hand you would know,” Clint said. “I don’t miss.” He crowded into Bucky’s space, bringing his face inches from the other man’s. He smirked as Bucky stepped back, his eyes widening as he lifted his chin to look at Clint. Most of the Avengers underestimated how tall Clint was -- his unassuming presence and tendency to either slump over the couch or perch awkwardly on top of the furniture never emphasized his height. But looking down at Bucky, Clint realized he had nearly three inches on him.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” Clint said, his voice pitched low. “I said, go shower.”

Bucky’s lips fell slightly open as he searched Clint’s face. For a moment he looked vulnerable, unsure, then he squared his shoulders and turned away. “Whatever, Barton. Just go back to your nest and leave me alone.”

Clint reached him in two long strides. He grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled hard, tilting Bucky’s head back against his shoulder. Bucky arched his back, gasping. Clint brought his lips to Bucky’s ear.

“You’re done, Soldier,” his whispered, his voice keeping its hard edge. He felt Bucky tense against him and heard the gears in his left arm begin to whir. Clint wrapped his hand around the metal wrist. “Shower. Now.”

Several moments passed before Bucky exhaled, leaning gently back against Clint. He uncurled his fingers from Bucky’s hair, allowing him to raise his head. Clint slid his hand down Bucky’s neck and pressed his thumb in small circles at the based of Bucky’s skull. Bucky turned to look at him, then sighed and headed towards the showers.

Clint followed him to the locker room, keeping his face impassive as Bucky lifted his shirt over his head and kicked off his shoes. Bucky raised an eyebrow as Clint settled onto a bench.

“What, you’re not going to join me and make sure I actually wash?” Bucky asked, his words heavy with sarcasm. Clint ignored the tone and simply shook his head.

“You go shower. We’ll talk when you get out.”

Bucky swallowed and nodded once before looking away. He pushed his sweatpants down over his hips, stepping out of them before walking towards the showers in his boxers.  

Clint waited until he heard the water running before walking to what Tony liked to call the “necessities closet.” Lavish robes hung from one wall, each monogramed with a team member’s initials. Another wall was lined with shelves crammed with random bath products, everything from mouthwash to hair gel to expensive face masks Clint had only ever seen Maria use. Clint grinned as he remembered the first time Pepper had wandered into the locker room. She had just shook her head and sighed, saying that she shouldn’t have been surprised Tony gave them customized bath towels after he invited them to move in after a single battle together.

“I’ll just have to accept that we’ve adopted several fully grown super heroes,” Pepper had said, grabbing a tub of Chanel hand cream before leaving.

Clint skipped the fancier products and grabbed one of his smaller towels, a hair brush, and some detangling spray. Then he walked back to the locker room and waited behind one of the benches.

Bucky shuffled out of the shower a few minutes later, a towel slung low around his waist and his wet hair curling around his shoulders. Clint indulged himself for one second and watch a droplet of water run off Bucky’s clavicle to drip down his chest. Then he met Bucky’s eyes and jerked his chin towards the bench in front of him.

“Sit,” he said. “Back towards me.”

Bucky stared at Clint, a hand curled around the back of his neck. Clint folded his arms, waiting for Bucky to question him or object, but after a moment's hesitation he did as Clint asked.

“Head back,” Clint instructed, reaching around to hook a finger beneath Bucky’s chin. Bucky tilted his head and gazed up at Clint.

Clint smiled, running his finger along Bucky’s jaw before dropping his hand to his side. “Perfect.”

He reached for the towel, his movements slow and exaggerated so that Bucky could see what he was doing. Clint wrapped it around the long ends of Bucky’s hair and squeezed away the excess water, then used the towel to massage Bucky’s scalp.

“Why are you doing this?” Bucky asked.

“Consider it a reward for doing as you were told.”

“I’m not one of your strays, Clint,” Bucky murmured.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t take care of you,” Clint replied. Bucky made a noise deep in his throat, but didn’t move or otherwise acknowledge Clint’s statement. They sat in silence for the next few minutes as Clint finished drying his hair.

“Lean forward,” Clint said, wrapping the damp towel around Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky complied.

“Why were you punishing yourself in the gym?” Clint pulled the comb from his pocket and began to gently tease apart one of the knots in Bucky’s hair. He added a spritz of detangling spray before working the teeth of the comb through the tangle.

Bucky shrugged. “Was just working out.”

Clint pulled the comb through a knot slightly harder than was necessary, eliciting a small gasp from Bucky. “Bullshit. Why were you trying to hurt yourself?”

Bucky sighed. “I went to Steve’s room to ask him if he wanted to spar. I started talking in Russian, couldn’t remember how to switch to English. I’m just so tired of seeing _that_ look his face, you know?”

“What look?” Clint pressed after several seconds of silence.

“The one where he realizes that I’m not his pal from the 40s.”

“I’m sure Steve would be the first one to tell you he’s not the same guy he was before he went into the ice either.”

“It’s not the same,” Bucky said, shaking his head slightly. “Steve never forgot himself, can map out every detail of how a scrawny punk born in 1918 became a superhero 70 years in the future. I’m constantly fighting to remember all the pieces of me.”

“So you left Steve’s apartment and came down here, because...”

“I don’t know,” Bucky said. “Needed to get out of my head, needed to focus on the moment and not think in Russian or English or freakin’ Portuguese. There’s something about pain that brings clarity.” The last sentence was spoken in a single exhalation, quiet and fast and heavy with shame.

“Nothing wrong with a little pain.” Clint grinned as Bucky jerked to look at him. “Na-uh,” he said, pressing his fingers against Bucky’s jaw to push his face away. “Eyes forward.”

Clint could practically hear the thoughts swirling through Bucky’s mind. He allowed his words to sink in for a moment before speaking again.

“That being said, you can’t push yourself like that again.”

Bucky tensed beneath Clint’s hands. “Thought you said there was nothing wrong with a little pain.”

“There isn’t,” Clint replied. “But there’s a difference between enjoying pain and hurting yourself to the point where you cause actual  damage.”

“Super soldier,” Bucky said through gritted teeth. “Kind of hard for a few pushups to cause serious harm.”

Clint dropped the brush and ran his hands along Bucky’s back. His fingers skimmed across hard muscle before finding a tight mass. Clint shoved his thumb into the knot, harder than he would have dared do with an average human, causing Bucky to arch his back and yell.

“Knots,” Clint said, his thumb pressing against another tense area. Bucky moved to get up, but Clint shoved him back to the bench. He wrenched Bucky’s right shoulder backward, hearing a distinct _pop_ even though he was certain the arm remained in the socket. “Strained ligaments.”  Clint dug his fist into the purple flesh beneath Bucky’s scapula. “With all this bruising you probably tore a muscle.”

He released Bucky, who collapsed forward, panting. “What the fuck, Clint.”

“You’d be useless if we got called out right now,” Clint said bluntly, stepping around the bench to look at Bucky’s face. “You didn’t stop with pain, you fucking _injured_ yourself.”

Bucky stared at Clint, still breathing heavily. “I heal quickly.”

Clint sighed and knelt in front of him. “That’s not the point, Barnes. You cannot hurt yourself like that.”

“I told you, I need the clarity. What do you suggest as an alternative?”

It takes every ounce of Clint’s self control not to jump in the air and fist pump. Instead he let his lips curl into a predatory smile.

“Next time you want _clarity_ , you come to me.”  Clint gazed into Bucky’s eyes, searching for a sign that the other man understood. Bucky furrowed his brow and didn’t respond, so Clint continued, “I can give you what you need.”

“Even pain?” Bucky asked, his voice small.

Clint nodded. “And I can do it without any lasting damage.”

“I don’t really know how that would work,” Bucky admitted.

“I can give you some resources,” Clint said. “But essentially rather you hurting yourself you’d come to me. You’d be giving me control.” Clint paused, watching for any negative reaction from Bucky. None came. “But I would never touch you without your consent. We will only do scenes you agreed to, with props that you’ve approved of beforehand, and you can stop at any time.”

Bucky tilted his head, considering. “Why would you do that for me?”

“There’s more than one way to take care of someone,” Clint replied. To his surprise Bucky blushed and looked away.

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course,” Clint said. “If it’s alright with you I’d like to send you some websites so you can get a better idea of what I’m talking about.”

Bucky nodded and stood up, gathering his clothes off the floor. He walked back to the bathroom to change, before turning back to Clint. “Do you think Steve would think less of me if we did this?”

Clint shook his head. “I think Steve would be glad there’s someone else looking out for you.”

“It’s too bad there’s not someone looking out for Steve.” Bucky stared down at the floor. “I tried to be that guy, but I don’t think I’m cut out for it.”

Clint opened his mouth then closed it rapidly -- now probably wasn’t the best time to bring up the possibility of developing a relationship with Steve as well.

“It’s okay to focus on yourself sometimes. And if you can’t, then let me be the one to figure out how to take care of you.”

Bucky smiled, finally looking away from the floor. “I really will think about it. Thanks, Clint.”  Then he turned on his heel and left the locker room.

Clint grinned the entire way back to his apartment, already making a list of resources to send Bucky in his head.

* * *

 

“Agent Barton, Sergeant Barnes is at your door.”

Clint looked up from the couch, where he sat organizing his trick arrows. “Awesome, J-man. Let him in.”

Bucky stepped into Clint’s apartment and hesitated by the door, glancing backwards as if deciding whether or not to bolt. Clint waved him over to the couch.

“Hey, Barnes, come sit down.”

Bucky settled on the far end of the couch, tucking his feet beneath him. “I looked at all the resources you sent me last week.”

“Good,” Clint said.  “What did you think?”

“I think.. I think that I’d like to try.”

Clint’s heart began slamming against his ribs, a grin breaking across his face. God, it had been _so_ _long_ since he had a proper sub. Natasha still came to visit him on occasion, but it just wasn’t the same as having someone to regularly do scenes with, to punish and care for. Clint knew he was getting ahead of himself, knew he had to take things slow with Bucky. But looking at Bucky’s face, somehow both vulnerable and stoic, Clint saw nothing but beautiful raw potential.

“I’m really glad to hear that,” he said. Bucky rubbed the back of his neck and offered a small smile.

“Have you given any thought about the kinds of things you’d be interested in? Hard and soft limits? Safewords?” Clint asked.

Bucky dug a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Clint, averting his gaze as Clint read the list.

The only thing written beneath ‘Hard Limits’ was _sensory deprivation_ . ‘Soft Limits’ had an arrow drawn to _Role play?_ Clint nodded; it made sense with Bucky’s history.

The other column was titled ‘Things to Try’. _Impact play_ was first on the list, circled three times in red ink. _Caning, flogging, paddling_ .. Clint nearly groaned when his eyes settled on _rope bondage_ \-- it was one of his personal favorite elements to incorporate into scenes. _Scalpels, wax play_.. The list was extensive. Clint was impressed.

“Are those okay?” Bucky mumbled after Clint had been silent for several minutes.

“You know,” Clint said, dragging his eyes from the paper to smirk at Bucky. “I think we just might be able to make these work.”


End file.
